


.

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mark's off your arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	.

The Mark’s off your arm. Taking it off ripped a scab off the universe: opened the oldest wound there is, let it start bleeding evil like a gut shot, thick and filthy. Now everywhere you look there’s capital-D Darkness flooding the world, staining everything, growing mold in the grout.

Before that happened, you fed Death what turned out to be his last meal; considered for half a second the vague possibility that the Mark could actually turn you into someone who could seriously kill Sam; considered for a few whole minutes the much more realistic possibility of you and the Mark spending eternity in the final frontier, trying not to seek out new life you’d only be tempted to kill. Boldly going without a space suit.

And after, you and Sam nearly tore off the Impala’s undercarriage getting it out of that popped-blister field; shagged ass for home through a pitch-black hurricane; wrangled a feral Cas into ditch-dirty Enochian-engraved tire chains; sealed yourselves into the Bunker and watched wisps of Darkness seep in around the doors and windows and up through the fucking floor because fuck your wards, it’s fucking _primordial evil_ , it goes wherever the fuck it wants.

You’ve had a busy day, is your point. A lot on your mind; a lot more than you thought on your arm. Some pretty goddamn heavy distractions.

But the Mark’s _off your arm_. Which means it’s also off your mind, which means, hey, you’re feeling shit again. (Okay, you’re feeling _like_ shit, mostly--which isn’t so much “again” as it is “still” with an unspoken “always”--but the difference is, now you _care_ that you feel like shit. You can recognise that, once upon a time, you knew there were other ways to feel; a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, you didn’t feel like shit _all the time_.) So when Cas finally shuffles out of the dungeon nursing an obviously nasty curse hangover, you’re glad he’s alive, glad he’s sane, glad he’s here with you and Sam. And you feel the old, unnamed tug between you you’ve always three-quarters-ignored.

And you think: _We're never going to have more than this._

With everything else going on, it’s the stupidest damn thought to have. But there it is, clear in your head. The clearest thought you’ve had about anything other than murder in over a year. You marvel at it a little, wryly. You’re maybe a little proud of yourself that it’s a statement, not a question. That it feels more like relief than despair.

You look at Cas's bruised eyes and defeated shoulders, at the dried rust of Crowley’s blood flaking out from under his fingernails, and it's just another time you've almost lost him. You watch him scrape a chair out from the table and almost fall into it, too drained to control his descent, and it's just another time you've found him willingly beside you while you wade into deep shit. You bear up under the focus he turns on you, the softening of his eyes and slight easing of his mouth when his gaze drops to the inside of your elbow, and it's just another signal you're not going to answer.

The Mark's off your arm. You're feeling shit again. And none of this, with Cas, means any more than it ever did.

“We missed it, didn’t we,” you say. Cas looks at you, tired and blank. You clarify, “You and me. We missed our window.”

You haven’t had a stare-down like the one that follows in...you can’t even remember. Your breath used to catch when he met your eyes like this, unblinking and weighty, looking into you more than at you. You used to wonder what he could see; what you were seeing, really, versus what you thought you could see. There were times when you thought, _Three more heartbeats and it’s on, two more seconds and we’re there, one more breath and I’ll--_ and of course you never did.

Neither of you ever did. You know now you never will.

You’ve missed your window.

You see the moment Cas figures out what you mean. It’s a moment of resignation, which, hey. There’s your answer.

You think he wants to spare you a little, though, because he hedges: "Are you asking because of the beating?"

You knew he forgave you for the beating when he didn't lift a finger to fight back. "No."

Another stare, assessing you for truth. He doesn't look hurt, just sad, which you suppose says a lot. “Then yes, Dean. I think we did.”

Across the table, Sam’s watching you both like he’s witnessing the end of an empire. Of course he understands. Of course he does, because he’s been here, too. Because the window for you and him, that one’s always open, always will be. It never closes. Even when the universe tries to slam the sash and nail it down, one or the other of you thinks _EMERGENCY_ and breaks the fucking glass.

The two of you only miss your chances with other people.

**Author's Note:**

> Is it meta? Is it canon spackle? Yes.


End file.
